Chicken

by Christos Polydorou

Therein was a moment
today, when I was walking
through the shopping centre, when
everything suddenly felt so
unreal, like I was not
a person made of
flesh and blood,
at all, but of dust,
and light, all
cast upon
some shimmering screen
created by something
very real and very
unreal in alternating, consecutive
moments, spiralling, cascading
down skies, up lengths of the
backs of angels and devils alike,
human forms, traditional norms,
and all of Kentucky breathing
down our necks. Did you
ask me
if I’d like
to be a part of your
cinemascope? If I
could handle
the mockery
bestowed for actors?
No thank you,
to fried chicken.
Don’t you
know
that we do not eat
birds
in America?